


Nitrous Oxide

by dontwatchmechange



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: First Kiss, M/M, Missing Scene, Public Transportation, the very first night of the rest of their lives
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-04
Updated: 2019-07-08
Packaged: 2020-06-03 22:42:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 4,816
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19473706
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dontwatchmechange/pseuds/dontwatchmechange
Summary: Many people, meeting Aziraphale for the first time, formed three impressions: that he was English, that he was intelligent, and that he was gayer than a tree full of monkeys on nitrous oxide. The great irony of this was that if you were to ask Aziraphale to confirm or deny any one of those, he’d tell you the wrong answer.





	1. Chapter 1

Many people, meeting Aziraphale for the first time, formed three impressions: that he was English, that he was intelligent, and that he was gayer than a tree full of monkeys on nitrous oxide. The great irony of this was that if you were to ask Aziraphale to confirm or deny any one of those, he’d tell you the wrong answer.

He didn’t think he was English. After all, he was an angel, and Heaven was about as far from England as you got. However, being immortal and incredibly fond of the place, he’d spent more total time there than any other Englishman in history.

He also didn’t think he was gay. Angels didn’t have gender the way humans did. But he’d been in love with one Anthony J. Crowley for seventy-eight years, and they’d both been calling themselves Mr. for longer than that, which you had to admit was pretty damning.

On the other hand, he believed himself to be quite intelligent indeed.

But, as Crowley emphatically informed him on the bus ride back to his apartment after stopping Armageddon, he was the thickest man on the planet.

"I just don't know how to get it through your skull, angel."

"Get what through my skull?" asked Aziraphale, puzzled and suddenly concerned for his own well-being.

"You're not working for Heaven anymore. I'm not working for Hell. The whole dynamic's called off entirely. We're free to do whatever we want."

"Yes, I'm aware."

"So just do it."

Aziraphale looked at Crowley innocently. "Do what?"

Crowley looked down at Aziraphale's hand, which had been drawing slowly but steadily nearer to his own hand for the past four minutes, then back up at Aziraphale.

"Oh!" said Aziraphale. "Well, we can't do it here, can we? People might notice."

Of course, when Aziraphale said this, he was thinking of switching bodies and fulfilling the prophecy. The thought had not so much as crossed his mind, although it had completely overtaken Crowley's, of holding hands for the hell of it.

"So what?" asked Crowley. "It's the twenty-first century, we're not going to get stoned for it or anything."

"I don't see what the century's got to do with it. It'd cause a scene."

"Averting Armageddon causes a scene. This is nothing. I mean, not nothing," he corrected himself quickly, "but anyone who would call attention to it is just an arsehole, really."

Aziraphale looked around. There was no one left but the two of them and the bus driver, who might have been too busy watching the road to notice something like a body-swap. He decided he'd rather not chance it. "I don't see why you're so eager. We could just wait until we get back to your place."

"I've been waiting for six thousand years, Angel, so pardon me for getting impatient."

Aziraphale raised an eyebrow. "Six thousand years?"

Crowley pumped the brakes. He was coming on too strong. "Well, when did you know?"

"Just today, when we got the prophecy. How on earth did you know we'd have to switch bodies six thousand years ago?"

Crowley blinked. "Switch bodies?"

"Yes, of course, Crowley. 'When all is faced and all is done, ye must choose your faces wisely, for soon enouff you will be playing with fire.' We switch, then they drag us off for the wrong punishments, so we survive. Simple." He paused. "What did you think I meant?"

Crowley was tempted to stop time again to come up with something appropriate to say here. If he'd been given more time to think, perhaps he would've said something witty enough to avoid the confrontation altogether. Instead, he let time run out as Aziraphale put the pieces together.

He could feel it now. Angels could sense love, but if it had always been there, from the very beginning, he couldn't tell the difference. It was a constant background noise, and it stuck out now like noticing your breath; once he knew it was there, it was impossible to ignore.

"Oh," he said. There was nothing else he could think to say.

"Angel, it's not that big a deal," lied Crowley.

"I think perhaps you're mistaken."

Crowley deflated. "Yeah, okay, tell you what. We do the switch, we switch back, and I get out of your hair."

"Crowley."

When Aziraphale said, "Crowley," what he meant was, "Crowley, I am already holding your hand and it baffles me that you haven't noticed," while what Crowley heard was, "Crowley, you're being ridiculous, and you simply must let go of all this being-attracted-to-me business." Funny how after six thousand years a couple still never quite understands each other.

"It's fine," Crowley sighed. "I'll go to Alpha Centauri or something. Not likely to run into you there."

"Crowley, please."

"No, I should. I should leave you alone. I suppose an angel and a demon just aren't meant to-"

He looked down at this point, and it's lucky he did, because he'd been about to say some things he really didn't mean.

He pointed at the joined hands. "When did that start?"

"Half a minute ago."

"Thought it'd burn, to be honest."

Aziraphale considered this. "You thought that my touch would burn you and you still wanted it?"

If Crowley were feeling at all himself, he'd have said, "I'm a demon. You don't know the half of what I'm into." In retelling the story, he'd include this line. He'd swear that was how he remembered it. But in fact he sat in quite an uncomfortable silence.

"We've touched before, you know," said Aziraphale finally.

"No, we haven't."

"We absolutely have. When you handed me the books in 1941, your hand brushed against mine." He counted on his fingers with his free hand. "Sometimes when we clink glasses your hand touches mine. Oh! When you drive, sometimes you take a corner too fast and our arms touch."

"Why is it," Crowley sighed, "that you notice things like that but completely miss the bigger picture?"

"You expect me to just know how you feel?"

What Crowley meant to say was something along the lines of "Yes, because you're a supernatural entity whose powers include precisely that," but what came out was "Yeah, aren't you a love wizard or something?"

Aziraphale felt his face flush.

Crowley bowed his head and asked quietly, "I'm not digging myself out of that hole, am I?"

"I love you, too," said Aziraphale reassuringly.

Crowley, as a rule, did not smile. But then, Crowley as a rule did not confess his feelings to Aziraphale, nor find that they were requited. Since he was in the habit of breaking his own rules, he supposed breaking another couldn't hurt. Not that he did it on purpose. Smiling, at its best, was something that happened to you rather than something you did.

Aziraphale smiled back, which frankly only made matters worse for Crowley.


	2. Chapter 2

Once you got past the plants, there wasn't much to Crowley's apartment.

"I've just got the one bed, I hope that's okay."

"I don't really sleep," said Aziraphale.

"What? How can you eat," said Crowley with disdain, "but not sleep? Sleep is wonderful."

"If I slept, I'd have less time to read."

Crowley crashed down onto the bed. "You're not going to be reading anything here."

"I suppose I'm not," said Aziraphale.

"So allow me to tempt you." Crowley patted the space next to him in bed.

"Fine." Aziraphale snapped his fingers, putting himself in a nightgown and cap that might have been highly fashionable in 1840.

Crowley balked. "Angel, you look like you're playing the lead in A Christmas Carol."

It was unknown to Crowley that Aziraphale had been the inspiration for A Christmas Carol. Aziraphale once visited Charles Dickens in an attempt to get a signed first edition of Oliver Twist, and when he accidentally revealed his angelic nature, Dickens mistook him for an apparition. Years later, a first edition of A Christmas Carol showed up on the stoop of Aziraphale's bookstore with a note - To the ghost of past, present, and future.

"What do you wear, then?" asked Aziraphale.

Crowley bit his tongue, because the answer was 'nothing,' but that would open a whole new can of worms he wasn't interested in opening. He miraculously changed into a grey T-shirt and black pajama pants. "Like a normal person."

Aziraphale sat down on the bed. "I don't think anything about us is normal."

Crowley slid to the far left side, and Aziraphale lay down next to him, facing straight up, arms folded across his chest.

He closed his eyes.

He opened his eyes. "It's not working."

Aziraphale racked his brain for everything he knew about sleep. It was fairly limited to literature and the few times he'd seen it happen in public. He was familiar with counting sheep, but they were miles away from the nearest flock, and he was certain Crowley wouldn't have any calming hot beverages.

"Don't people have to kiss each other goodnight?" He had definitely read that somewhere.

If Crowley had any calming hot beverage, it would have been spat all over the room. "What?"

"Kissing. You put your lips together like this-"

"I know what it is," said Crowley, pushing away Aziraphale, who had pursed his lips tightly as if he'd just eaten a lemon. "And it's definitely not done like that."

Crowley had several advantages over Aziraphale in this department. For one, he hung out in the sort of places where one might see people kissing - bars, clubs, seedy back alleys, you name it. Second, he'd turned on a television from time to time. Aziraphale had never once been to the movies, while Crowley had an annual seat saved at the closest Rocky Horror Picture Show.

But when Aziraphale asked, "Then how is it done, if you're such an expert?", Crowley blanked.

"Er," Crowley started. "Okay. Relax a little. Sit up. Face me."

In the history of the world, there have only been three perfect first kisses. The first was in 2560 BC, a secret affair between two slaves who helped to construct the Great Pyramid. The second was in 1597, shared by the first Romeo and Juliet - both men in their thirties, of course.

The third?

Well, it wasn't here.

Because Crowley and Aziraphale met a little too quickly, their mouths mushing together clumsily, with little to no coordination on either end. They held this position for about three seconds, then Aziraphale broke away.

"Okay, maybe we ought to be more gentle," he said.

"Sometimes on TV they have their hands on each other's faces."

Aziraphale rested a hand on Crowley's cheek. "Like that?"

Crowley's heart melted. "Looks right to me," he said casually. Calmly. As if this wasn't the whole reason he was created, the reason he fell, the reason he suffered for so many millennia. Everything led him here, to Aziraphale's hand on his cheek, and now it was all worth it.

"Now if I lean in slower…"

This time, Crowley remembered to move his mouth in a way that halfway resembled a kiss, and Aziraphale was so shocked by this development that he pulled away. "You're supposed to move?"

"Yes, you're supposed to move, come back here!"

So Aziraphale fell back into it. They found a rhythm and settled, Aziraphale's hand tracing down Crowley's side, landing on his hip, pulling him closer, pulling both of them down onto the bed. Crowley, in turn, held onto Aziraphale, for fear that he might let go.

This, they both thought, was more like it.

They pushed together, limbs entangled, desperate for the kind of oneness one only finds with others.

"I don't much feel like sleeping," said Aziraphale.

"Neither do I," said Crowley.


	3. Chapter 3

Aziraphale woke the next morning in Crowley’s bed, with Crowley next to him. He could only assume that he had slept, which was bizarre, because he slept so seldomly he couldn’t remember the last time he’d done it. It was always so difficult, he’d heard, to remember what had happened the day before. Certain details were coming back to him, standing around Tadfield Air Base, fighting… something...

“Crowley, did we stop Armageddon?”

“What?” Crowley sat up slowly, rubbing his eyes. “Yeah, I think we did. World’s safe, I’m going back to sleep.”

“I just feel like I’ve forgotten something important,” said Aziraphale, getting up and changing with a hand wave back into his favorite coat.

“Yeah, stopping Armageddon,” said Crowley. “Details are fuzzy. Long day, I suppose.”

“Yes,” said Aziraphale. “A long day indeed. Cocoa?”

“Angel, it’s 8am on a Sunday.” Crowley rolled onto his side. “What, have I got church?”

Aziraphale looked out the window, and rather than the chaos one expected to see the day after the end of the world, he merely saw people on the street going about their business. Some drove. Some used velocipedes. Many just sat on benches, happily reading their newspapers. Aziraphale could hear someone talking about “mass hallucinations.”

“Crowley!” he called. “Everything’s gone back to normal!”

“Oh, has it?” said Crowley. “Because ordinarily I’d be asleep about now.”

Aziraphale looked down at the coffee table, where a slip of prophecy lay. “I think it’s best we switch now. They could be here anytime.”

Crowley moaned. “What d’you mean, switch?”

“Agnes’s last prophecy. You remember Agnes Nutter.”

“Yeah, ‘course. Haven’t forgotten much. Just feels like a hangover.”

“A hangover?” Aziraphale asked, quite certain he’d regret it.

“Humans can’t just get rid of their alcohol, they have to let it sit in their bodies until it poisons them. I do it around humans to blend in. Don’t worry about it.”

Aziraphale had never heard something so awful in his life, but he had to breeze past it. “We have to switch bodies. They’re coming for us, heaven and hell, and it’s important we trick them into thinking we’re each other. I don’t know why.”

“Okay,” said Crowley, sitting up. “So I’ve gotta be you, and you’ve gotta be me.”

“Precisely."

“Oh, you can’t be me, Angel, you’re too innocent. You couldn’t crack a joke if your life depended on it.”

“As I’m quite certain it does,” he said grimly. “But I know what you’d say in almost any situation, I’ve been around you six thousand years.”

“Oh, yeah?” Crowley sprung up from his bed. “Well, I know you better than anyone. I could nail an Aziraphale impression.”

Aziraphale held out a hand. “Prove it.”

Crowley looked at Aziraphale’s hand, his eyes wide. He’d never actually touched Aziraphale, but he assumed his palm would burn the way a crucifix scorched against his chest, or how the pages of a Bible sizzled under his fingers.

“Take my hand,” said Aziraphale sharply, “and we’ll switch. It’ll only be a second.”

Crowley slowly extended his hand to meet Aziraphale’s, but found upon contact that, if anything, Aziraphale’s hand was cold, not lifeless but bloodless, and left no mark. Maybe angels were safe to touch after all, or maybe Aziraphale had fallen enough to be safe. He couldn’t know.

When they broke the handshake, Aziraphale stared at Aziraphale, and Crowley at Crowley. Was that really what they looked like? Mirrors could never do you justice, could they?

“Not so bad, then?” asked Aziraphale, referring to the handshake.

“Not bad at all,” said Crowley, caught up in his own image. “Alright then, do me.”

Aziraphale dramatically crashed back into bed, threw the alarm clock onto the floor hard enough to break it, rolled onto his side, and fell back asleep.

Crowley pursed his lips slightly and took a sip of Aziraphale’s already-prepared hot cocoa. “He’ll do fine,” he said to himself.

\--

Of course, you know the next part of the story, and I’m not in the business of telling you what you already know. I'm more in the business of creation. And destruction. And ineffable plans that involve both and neither of those things. It's complicated.

\--

“I still feel as if I’ve forgotten something important,” said Aziraphale as they left the Ritz.

“It’ll come to you,” said Crowley. “Or not. I guarantee I’ve forgotten as many important things as I’ve remembered over the years. It happens when you’re as old as time.”

“Not to me,” said Aziraphale. He could remember giving away the flaming sword to Adam and Eve with crystal clarity, and until now, he hadn’t forgotten a bit of his life since.

“Why don’t we get back in the Bentley," said Crowley optimistically, "and we can go for a ride. No, a holiday!" He clapped. "Yes. Take your mind off things."

A holiday. Now that was something, wasn't it? Crowley had always gone on about running away together. There had to be some merit to the idea. He'd never actually gone on holiday. Every trip had been a work trip. Now that he was unemployed…

"Promise me you'll drive the speed limit," said Aziraphale.

"The speed limit?" Crowley scoffed. "Do you want to be stuck in traffic?"

Aziraphale thought of accidental arm bumps, of The Best Of Queen, of Crowley chattering about nothing the way he always did when he drove. He thought of the Bentley, old enough it should have fallen apart but kept safe through the years regardless, and of the long walk back to the "lift home" from the bombed church in 1941.

"Crowley, I would love to be stuck in traffic."

Crowley gave him a perplexed look. "Fine. I guess. Whatever."


	4. Chapter 4

Aziraphale hadn't the faintest idea how Crowley's phone GPS worked, but he'd mastered the art of the subtle miracle long ago, and Google Maps hadn't been pointed toward Barcelona in an hour.

"Angel," said Crowley upon seeing signs for Tadfield. "This is not a holiday."

"I know, I know," Aziraphale dismissed. "I just thought we could stop here and try to put together what we've forgotten."

"I just wanted to go somewhere nice," Crowley grumbled. "And we're back in the middle of nowhere."

"Just one afternoon of investigation and we'll be on our way," said Aziraphale.

Meanwhile, Adam Young sat in his backyard, next to the hole in his hedge, absentmindedly tossing a stick for Dog and trying to remember the absurd dream he'd had last night. He couldn't quite remember it anymore, only that he'd been to the air base with The Them, and incredible, strange things had happened.

He wanted to tell The Them about it, but they'd all gone to hang out without him. He didn't even know why he was grounded. His mother hadn't told him.

The hedge rustled.

"Hello?" called Adam.

"Shh," replied a voice, and a man in black with red hair emerged from the hole in the hedge.

The man from the dream.

The angel who could stop time.

The angel with his dark wings, and-

"Where's the other one?" demanded Adam.

"On his way to see Newt and Anathema, I think. Told him it'd go faster if we split up."

"I want him here," said Adam, and suddenly Aziraphale appeared, hand raised ready to knock on the front door of Jasmine Cottage. He stumbled forward as his hand hit nothing but air behind Adam's house.

"Hello!" he said brightly.

"Are you real?" he asked. "It's… hard to tell lately."

"Yes," said Crowley bluntly, pointing to each of them as he identified them. "Crowley. Aziraphale. Antichrist. Good to meet you."

"Wow," said Adam. "So the Horsemen were real, too."

"Horsemen," said Crowley uncertainly. He turned to Aziraphale. "Horsemen?"

"There were supposed to be," he confirmed.

"My friends killed the Horsemen," said Adam.

It came back to Crowley and Aziraphale, faint images of a redheaded woman wielding Aziraphale's sword, of a little girl using wild profanity, and, to Crowley, the thought returned of Aziraphale nearly forgetting to return the sword. He snickered. That was just like him, wasn't it?

"What's so funny?" asked Aziraphale.

"Nothing," said Crowley easily. "Just remembered a joke. You wouldn't like it."

Aziraphale turned to Adam. "Is there any way you could wish we were at Jasmine Cottage?"

"Don't encourage him to use that power," said Crowley. "He could still turn dark."

But by the time Crowley finished talking, they'd already been transported, right into the living room.

"I'd been expecting you," said Anathema, who had already set out a tea set. "The last prophecy in the book. 'The lovebirds hath forgotten love and will return to the nest to find it.'" She smiled. She'd always been a completionist.

"Lovebirds?" asked Aziraphale, intentionally avoiding Crowley's gaze. Crowley, meanwhile, had been staring at Aziraphale in a mix of fear and curiosity since Anathema said it.

"It's not literal. You're angels."

Crowley snapped to face her and hissed. "Anathema Device, let's get one thing straight right this minute. I am not an angel."

"Well, you must've saved the world. That's love. No way around it. But I can't quite remember what happened yesterday, either. Last I remember meeting you, you hit me with your car."

"What did you do yesterday?" asked Aziraphale.

"Shut down a bunch of nuclear reactors," she said casually. "But the details are gone."

Newt rounded the corner and stopped in his tracks. "Who are you guys?"

"Okay, he's no use to us," said Crowley.

"No, probably not," sighed Anathema. "He's a human with a concussion to boot, he's having a hard time remembering any of it. I'm surprised he knows we saved the world at all."

"That's not right," said Adam, who presently stood by Anathema, to the surprise of everyone in the room.

Aziraphale realized his mistake. "Adam, when I said we were going to visit Anathema-"

"It's not right that we forget," Adam maintained. "I think we should all remember what happened at the air base."

As they all remembered, they all understood why the world had to forget. The apocalypse had been in full swing. Ordinary people couldn't handle that knowledge and go on with their lives. Luckily, four of the five in the room were not ordinary people. (Newt collapsed onto a chair in shock, muttering something about crossing paths with the devil.)

"I suppose that must have been it," said Aziraphale dejectedly, reviewing his new memories.

"What, turning Satan, King of Hell into a pissed-off Englishman isn't enough for you?" asked Crowley. "Listen, that means there's an opening at the highest level in Hell. Anyone could take that job. Thank all that is pure and perfect in this world I don't work for them anymore."

"Pure and perfect?" repeated Aziraphale.

Crowley grimaced. He couldn't win with Aziraphale. He said Hell things, he got dirty looks. He said Heaven things, he got weird looks. Who was he supposed to thank anymore?

"You worked for Hell?" asked Newt in horror.

If they had to be one or the other, humans are much more like demons than angels. Original sin does quite a number on them. However, humans and angels share a few notable characteristics: they always think what they're doing is right, they believe Heaven's the better place to be, and, on the whole, they despise interacting with known demons.

"It's okay," said Aziraphale. "He's, er, reformed."

"So you're an angel, too."

"Aziraphale, let's go," said Crowley in a huff. He took his hand and started for the door.

"Thanks for having us," said Aziraphale politely to Anathema and Newt while being dragged along. "And thanks for the memories!"

Aziraphale said nothing, dared not say anything, until they reached the Bentley. "Why'd you take my hand like that?"

Crowley dropped his hand, looked Aziraphale up and down, and realized he didn't know the answer. "You walk too slow otherwise." There. That was true. They both got in the car.

"You've never done it before." Was his blush from the walk? They hadn't walked too quickly, but Aziraphale wasn't the fittest.

Crowley narrowed his eyes as he fastened his seatbelt. "Never knew I could."

"Well." He fixed his bowtie. "You can."

"Noted." Crowley started the Bentley. "Where are we off to?"

"You're driving," said Aziraphale.

Crowley looked at him pointedly.

"Picnic at St. James?"


	5. Chapter 5

There were two slots in the Bentley for Crowley to insert music. One was a tape player, and one was a CD player. For the most part, there was very little difference, as any music left in the car for more than two weeks turned to Queen. However, when Crowley planned ahead to be driving, he brought fresh CDs from home, and the two slots contained entirely different music.

It happened, as a result, that they had different PLAY buttons, and when Aziraphale thought he was selecting the PLAY button for the tape player, to resume where they left off in Bohemian Rhapsody as they arrived in Tadfield, he instead clicked on music he had never heard, soft and acoustic with a gentle voice overlaid.

"No, no, turn that off," Crowley demanded, reaching for the button.

"Why?" asked Aziraphale. "This is quite nice, actually. What is it?"

_ Linger on… _

"Velvet Underground," said Crowley, drowning out the singer saying  _ your pale blue eyes.  _ "It's not that good, I just needed something to take my mind off of things."

"I think it's very good," said Aziraphale.

So they kept it on, but every time the singer went for the title, Crowley found something important to say overtop of it.

_ Linger on…  _ "Which way's London, anyway?"

_ Linger on…  _ "How insane was that body swap, eh?"

There, thought Crowley as the song ended. Now Aziraphale would never suspect that Crowley sat in the car after the bandstand breakup and listened to love songs about him.

"That's a good one," said Aziraphale. "You can't always feel the love in love songs, but that one was really screaming at me, you know? I could really feel it."

Crowley nodded. "Yep. Great song. Can we go back to Beelzebub having a devil put aside for me?"

\--

The weather was a bit too perfect. I have a habit of apologizing for near-apocalyptic events with unusually nice weather. In fact, if Aziraphale and Crowley looked up and to the southeast, they would have seen a rainbow behind them at their picnic.

The two sat cross-legged across from each other on a checkered blanket, drinking spiked lemonade from mason jars.

"So. Heaven's off your back, Hell's off mine, what happens now?"

"No more temptations," said Aziraphale.

You can always tempt me, thought Crowley, but it must not have been just a thought, because Aziraphale chuckled.

"There's no one I'd rather tempt."

"Oh, don't flirt unless you mean it," said Crowley, a learned comeback he'd used over years of humans phrasing things poorly.

Aziraphale went silent, sipping his lemonade.

Crowley put his jar down. "Were you actually flirting, Angel?"

Aziraphale saw a crossroads. If he said yes, he was putting his relationship with Crowley in danger. If he said no, he'd be lying. What did he value more, Crowley or honesty?

He could have both.

"Angels don't flirt," he said. True.

"Angels don't eat potato salad and ham sandwiches," said Crowley, pointing to his plate and his half-full mouth. "Angels don't run bookshops in SoHo or trust blessings to demons or turn against God Herself on Judgment Day, there's a lot your lot don't do."

"But I wasn't trying to flirt with you." Also true. The only way Aziraphale could say something halfway smooth was accidentally.

Crowley caught on. "Aziraphale."

"Okay, I like you," he admitted. "Not just as a friend. I get those butterflies humans write about."

"Butterflies?" asked Crowley, confused but too pleased to particularly care.

"In my stomach."

Crowley made a face. "You eat butterflies?"

"No, it's- have you never heard a human talk?"

"I've never seen one eat a butterfly," he said, a grin growing. "Did my lot come up with that?"

"It's a metaphor, Crowley, it just means-"

"I know what it means," he said, pulling Aziraphale close by the shirt collar and kissing him in front of me and everyone.

In 2561 BC, a pair of slaves witnessed aliens building the Great Pyramid and had their memories wiped by extraterrestrial technology, in the process erasing a years-long affair. In 1596, a never-ending series of stage kisses as Romeo and Juliet prepared the actors for the real thing behind the scenes.

First kisses are, as Thomas Hobbes so eloquently put it, nasty, brutish, and short.

Unless you've done it before.

A sudden pang of jealousy went through Crowley's heart. He broke away. "Who taught you how to kiss?"

"I've never kissed anyone," said Aziraphale, coming to terms with the sudden feeling of love emanating from Crowley that he'd never noticed but had always been there, had definitely always been there. "Why, was that good?"

"Well, I knew I'd be good on the first try, but you, you're a nerd, you're an angel, you're supposed to be all chaste and dorky."

Aziraphale shrugged. "I guess it's just a talent."

"Completely wasted for six thousand years."

"I won't waste it in the future."

"Now that- that HAD to be flirting."

Aziraphale smiled. "Perhaps it was."


End file.
